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by 1863



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Harlequin, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-15 13:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13032072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: A lonely and isolated Richard moves to a dilapidated estate in the English countryside, where he hires Graham, a local handyman, to repair the house and grounds... and maybe his broken heart, too.





	Home

“Sorry, Richard. I'm having trouble finding that right now.”

“ _Highfield_ ,” Richard says, for the third time. “Highfield Estate.”

“Sorry, Richard. I'm having trouble finding that right now.”

Richard grits his teeth. “Highfield,” he repeats. “Cumbria, England.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “United Kingdom. Europe. _Earth_.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Sorry, Richard. I'm having trouble finding that right now.”

“Goddamnit, Siri.” Richard resists the urge to fling his phone at the windshield and instead takes a deep breath. “Fine,” he mutters, starting the car up again. “I’ll find the bloody place myself.”

He carefully heads back onto the main road, although ‘main’ might be a bit of a misnomer. Richard hasn’t seen another car—or another person, even—since he’d arrived half an hour ago, despite it being a Saturday afternoon. _Then again_ , he thinks, inching forward slowly,  _the rain might have something to do with it._

It’s bucketing down, torrential in a way that Richard’s rarely seen it, the noise almost deafening as it pours over his car. He can barely see what’s in front of him but he can sort of make out what looks like a familiar building up ahead, and cautiously takes a left turn when he reaches it. He’s pretty sure he took a left at the post office when he’d last been here, when he’d finally—if somewhat impulsively—signed on the proverbial dotted line and bought a house that the agent had euphemistically described as  _rustic_.

“Dilapidated, more like,” Richard mutters to himself, scanning the surrounding countryside as he continues to drive. He can’t really see anything clearly through the rain but what he can make out he doesn’t recognise at all, and he’s just starting to wonder if that _had_ been the post office when there’s a sudden, urgent shout, audible even over the noise of the pouring rain.

“Stop!” someone yells. “Stop! You’ll hit— _stop!_ ”

Richard moves without thinking, slamming on the brakes. For a moment everything seems to happen in slow motion—he sees the vague shape of a person running out onto the road, terrifyingly close to the car and silhouetted by the glare of the headlights—when the brakes makes a terrible, high-pitched sound, the car swerving wildly on the wet road before coming to a sudden, abrupt halt.

Richard grips the steering wheel, panting, heart hammering in his chest. _I didn’t feel anything hit me_ , he thinks frantically. _I didn’t_ — _Did I?_

A sharp knock at the window makes him jump.

“What the hell,” someone demands, when Richard lowers the glass. “Were you not watching the road?”

It’s a man, at least as tall as Richard is, dripping wet despite the heavy raincoat he’s wearing.

“I’m sorry,” Richard starts, before noticing the small bundle that’s he got cradled in his arms. “Is that…?”

“A wee fawn, yes.” He pulls it closer as the wind makes the rain change direction. “You nearly hit it,” he adds, glaring at Richard from under the hood of his mac.

“A fawn,” Richard repeats, staring. “You…” He trails off in disbelief. “You ran out into the road to save a _fawn_?”

“You were going to hit it!”

“I could have hit _you_!” Richard explodes. “Or I could’ve driven off the embankment and crashed!”

He knows his voice is too loud, knows his anger is misdirected, but months and months of exhaustion and stress and heartbreak bubble up and spill over, and before he knows what he’s doing Richard’s out of the car and shoving at a stranger, yelling in his face as the rain continues to bucket down around them.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Richard shouts.

The man’s eyes narrow. _Come on_ , Richard thinks. _Do it. Hit me. Make me hit you._

But something flickers over the other man’s face, something other than anger, and he glances down at the tiny, shivering fawn in his arms before looking back up. When their eyes meet again, Richard stumbles back, his sudden anger gone as quickly as it flared up.

He recognises the look in this stranger’s face.

It’s sympathy.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” the man says shortly, before turning and walking away.

Richard stares after him, watching as he heads back to his own car a little further down the road. He gently wraps the fawn in a blanket and carefully lays it on the passenger seat before he drives off, leaving Richard alone, lost, and utterly soaked to the skin.

**

It probably wasn’t the best decision, moving into Highfield in late October. It wasn’t quite winter yet but it certainly felt like it, the frigid wind and freezing rain making Richard dig out his coats and scarves a lot earlier than he would have in London.

He scans the long list of things that need to get fixed, sipping on a cup of very hot tea and shuffling a little closer to the fireplace. He could have waited, there had been no real rush—but the longer he stayed in the city the more the memories crowded in on him, sharp and stinging, resurfacing without warning wherever he went. The cafe they’d have brunch in on Sundays; the park they passed on the way to work. Shops where they’d bought sheets and cutlery and art together; the complete and utter silence in the house when he came home from the office every evening. And all the half-empty spaces—dozens of them, in the fridge and the closet and the bathroom and the bookshelves—that were a constant reminder that something was missing, something was gone. Some _one_.

Maybe Richard couldn’t have waited any longer, after all.

And so here he sits, by the fireplace in a crumbling old manor house in the middle of nowhere, where he knows no one and no one knows him. Richard tells himself it was the right decision but as he looks over the endless list of repairs, he has a hard time believing it. There’s no way he’ll be able to do all of it himself and still make his deadlines for work, never mind that half the jobs would need a proper tradesman anyway.

Richard sighs and tosses the list aside. He’d intended to just move in and start working on his next book right away, maybe doing some repairs to the house now and then when he needed a break. He hadn’t really wanted to make friends with the locals, didn’t want anyone to puncture his little bubble of solitude— _self-pity_ , he corrects with a grim smile—but there’s nothing else for it. He needs the help.

**

“Wow, what a dump.”

“Aidan!” Dean elbows the Irish one in the ribs.

“I mean,” Aidan quickly adds, “it’s just… different, inside, than I’d expected.”

“Thanks for letting us be nosy,” the other one—Adam—says. “It’s just that no one’s been in here for years and, well… the whole village was curious.”

He looks over at Richard and grins.

“About the house,” Richard asks slowly, “or about me?”

“Both,” Dean replies. “There hasn’t been this much gossip down at the pub since _I_ moved here.”

“You’re from New Zealand, right?” Richard asks, jumping on the change of topic immediately. Dean smiles a little and RIchard gets the sense that he’d done it on purpose—that Dean had deliberately given him a way out from the other two’s relentless curiosity.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Followed these nitwits,” he adds, jerking his head towards Aidan and Adam. The other two don’t even notice, too busy peering at Richard’s half-unpacked belongings and muttering about the state of the house.

“You’re not going to fix all this yourself, are you?” Adam asks, holding up the list of repairs Richard had made a few days ago.

“Unless you’re a carpenter or something?” Aidan looks at him with interest. “Are you? Or a stonemason, or something like that?”

“He’s not a stonemason,” Adam scoffs. “Look at his hands! They’re like, hand-model hands.”

“I’m a writer,” Richard interjects, and resists the urge to stuff his hands into his pockets when the others try to get a better look at them. “And no, I’m not going to try to fix all of it myself. Wouldn’t even know how to, to be honest.”

“D’you need someone, then?”

Richard blinks. “I’m sorry?” he asks blankly.

“To fix the house,” Dean clarifies. But he’s looking at Richard with slightly narrowed eyes and Richard gets the distinct impression that Dean wasn’t the kind of person to miss much. One or two more questions and Dean would probably have his whole life story figured out.

“Right,” Richard says quickly, turning away and grabbing a pen and paper from the near the phone just to have something to do. “I don’t suppose any of you could recommend someone?”

“Graham,” all three of them say in unison.

Richard looks up, surprised.

“He’s the best carpenter in the village,” Adam says. “Well, jack of all trades, really.”

“He’s the _only_ carpenter in the village,” Aidan corrects, but Adam waves him away.

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s good.”

“He really is,” Dean assures. “Even does fancy stuff like carvings and custom furniture. If anyone here could fix things for you, it’s him.”

Richard gets Dean to write down the man’s details before the three of them say their goodbyes and leave. As far as neighbours go, they’re nice enough, but Richard heaves a sigh of relief when they’re gone. He doesn’t really think anyone in the village would give him trouble if they found out why he’d moved here—or more specifically, that the reason was a he and not a she—but he’d still rather keep it to himself, and getting too friendly with three gossipy neighbours couldn’t be much of a help.

Still, Richard muses, looking down at Dean’s note, at least he could make a start on the repairs now that he had the name and number for a local handyman.

“Graham,” Richard murmurs.

He’ll give him a call first thing in the morning.

**

“There’s a lot that needs to be done,” Graham says, flipping through the notes he’s made on a pad of paper. “Worse than I’d thought, really, going by the outside.”

Richard trails after him, catching glimpses of what look like mathematical equations interspersed with phrases like _spruce from Jed’s?_ in the notepad.

They’d already spent more than an hour outside, Graham taking measurements of the land and doing some rough sketches of landscaping ideas. He was thorough and professional, even going so far as scooping up some soil samples to figure out what plants would grow best.

“Do you have a preference?” he’d asked, glancing up from where he was crouched on the ground as Richard peered over his shoulder.

Richard just blinked at him until Graham turned away with a small smile on his face.

“For the garden,” Graham added.

“Oh.” Richard shrugged. “Not really… to be honest, I don’t know really know much about any of this.”

Graham raised his eyebrows and grinned.

“You’ll give me free reign?”

“Well,” Richard replied, “you look like you know what you’re doing.”

Graham had laughed at that, brushing his hands over his jeans to clean them off a little.

“Have I just been damned with faint praise?”

Richard raised an eyebrow and grinned a little himself.

“We have only just met.”

They’ve been back inside for a while now, Graham inspecting the house with the same thoroughness as he’d checked the grounds. They ended up sitting at the old oak table in the kitchen, Richard making them both cups of tea and Graham outlining his initial thoughts on the work that needed to be done.

“How long do you think it’ll take?” Richard asks now, flicking through Graham’s notepad and admiring some of the sketches. Rough as they were, there was no denying that Graham had some impressive skills.

Graham thinks for a moment. “Including the grounds—the garden and everything—I’d say…” he trails off, considering. “Six months, at the very least.”

“Six _months_?”

Richard had suspected it would take a while, but half a year was a long, long time.

Graham just frowns at him. And then, suddenly, he smiles.

“It’s a big house, Richard.”

“Right,” Richard says faintly, a little thrown by the abrupt change in his expression.

“Well, you don’t have to make a decision now.” Graham opens his jacket and stuffs the notebook into an inner pocket. “It’s a lot of money, and a lot of time.” He looks around the kitchen, fingers absently tapping against the table, and Richard can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he mentally transforms the sad state of the room into something much, much nicer.

“Will it be worth it, do you think?”

Richard doesn’t know why he asked—a very lucrative job was on the line, of course Graham would say yes—but when Graham meets his eyes, there’s an oddly serious expression in them and it takes a minute for him to respond.

“There’s something beautiful here, I know it,” Graham says. His voice has gone quiet. “Just got a bit lost, that’s all.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “I can’t say that I’ll definitely be able to find it, but I’d certainly like to try.”

Richard isn’t sure what to say to that. Graham just smiles again and thanks him for the tea before standing up.

“I’ll send you a proper quote and a draft contract by the end of the week,” he says. “Maybe a provisional schedule too. Have a think about what you need done first, and what could wait till later.” He pauses, then adds, “No need to rush into anything.”

Richard walks him back to the front door.

“Thanks for coming by at such short notice,” he starts to say, only to trail off into silence. Graham is slipping his coat back on, over a soft-looking woollen jumper, pulling the hood up too as insurance against the late autumn chill. Something about the movement pokes at Richard’s mind, some vague memory that he can’t quite—

“It’s _you_ ,” he says suddenly, staring.

Graham raises an eyebrow.

“Excuse me?”

Richard crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow of his own.

“How’s the fawn?”

Graham looks utterly nonplussed for a moment before realisation slowly dawns. His eyes shutter and he presses his mouth into a thin, unimpressed line. The difference to what he’d looked like smiling is so stark that, absurdly, Richard feels a little guilty.

“Fine, no thanks to you.”

The guilt swiftly turns into irritation.

“It was bucketing down, I could barely see a foot in front me!”

“All the more reason to drive carefully.” Graham shakes his head. “We’re in the middle of nowhere; there isn’t anywhere to rush to except maybe the pub on Thursdays. This isn’t London, mate.”

The mention of London stings. Richard has to close his eyes against the sudden flood of memories, and the corresponding flood of rage. But Graham doesn’t know a thing about him, has no clue about what brought him here—to Graham, he’s just another cashed-up city boy moving to the countryside. Richard hadn’t been able to keep a lid on his misdirected anger when they’d first met, but now he forces himself to remember that he really does need Graham’s help.

He takes a deep breath.

“I know it isn’t London,” Richard says, voice too even to be flippant, and opens his eyes.

Graham is watching him closely. Richard braces himself for the inevitable questions, starts mentally rehearsing all the cursory, non-committal answers he could give: _I wanted a change of pace; the countryside is beautiful here; I like the peace and quiet._

But Graham just continues to look at him for a long, long minute, as though searching his face for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked yet.

“It’s fine,” Graham says, eventually. “The fawn.”

Richard stares.

“Look,” Graham adds. He hesitates for a moment before holding out a hand. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

Richard looks down at his outstretched hand. His fingers are calloused—a tradesman’s hands—but his skin is warm and his grip is solid when Richard closes his own fingers around them, giving one firm shake before letting go.

“No reason to keep it that way,” Richard says.

Graham smiles at that. Richard finds himself smiling back, feeling oddly relieved.

“So,” he adds, watching as as Graham wraps a scarf around his neck. “What happens at the pub on Thursdays?”

**

Richard stares at the poster stuck up on the pub’s front door.

“Stew day?” he asks, trying not to sound too dubious.

Graham chuckles.

“Not just any stew,” he says, and pushes the door open. “ _Irish_ stew day.”

The pub is absolutely packed, people crowded around nearly every table and standing up all along the bar. Going by what he’s seen so far, Richard wouldn’t have guessed that so many people even lived in the village, let alone would be willing to cram into a tiny pub on a miserably wet Thursday evening.

“Graham!” someone yells in greeting, before they’re quickly herded towards the far corner and all but pushed into a booth.

“Jimmy,” Graham replies with a wide grin. The other man grins back.

“Stew for _two_ today, hmm?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, his Irish lilt somehow emphasisng the implied suggestion.

Richard tenses but Graham just laughs.

“This is a new client,” he says. “Well, potential client, anyway. Jimmy, Richard. Richard, Jimmy.”

Jimmy squints at him for a moment before suddenly snapping his fingers.

“Oh, I know you!” he exclaims. “The writer!”

“You’ve read my work?” Richard asks, a little surprised but unable to keep the pride out of his voice.

“Oh—erm, no, actually,” Jimmy admits. “Our Aidan just told me about you. That you’d bought  Highfield, I mean.”

“Ah,” Richard says, mildly embarrassed that he’d jumped to conclusions. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

“I’m sure your books are great, though,” Jimmy adds quickly. “Just, you know. That sort of thing’s not really my cup of tea… I prefer action, me. Thrillers and spies and the like. History—” Jimmy shrugs. “Not so much. No offence, though.”

“None taken,” Richard assures.

He heads off soon afterwards, promising to send out a couple of bowls of the stew that’s apparently the highlight of the entire village’s week.

“And a couple of pints to wash it all down!” Graham calls after him. Jimmy waves in acknowledgement before he disappears into the kitchen.

“Does everyone know I bought Highfield?” Richard asks when they’re alone again.

Graham shrugs. “It’s a small town.”

Richard sighs. “So much for staying anonymous.”

“Are you that famous in London?” Graham sounds amused. “Because to be honest, I’ve never actually heard of you.”

“Famous?” Richard asks blankly, before mentally replaying what he’d said and flushing at how it must have sounded. “No,” he adds quickly. “You misunderstand, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“What way, then?”

Graham leans forward, eyes bright with interest, and Richard has to look away from the sudden scrutiny, irrationally afraid that Graham will somehow see the reason he moved here, even as he wonders why Graham would even care.

“I just meant…” Richard shakes his head. “I just wanted to be left alone.”

When there’s no response to that, Richard glances up.

Graham is watching him carefully, a small frown on his face. But he doesn’t seem angry or offended. If anything, he just looks—

Sympathetic, Richard realises. The same way he’d looked when they’d first met, on the road in the pouring rain when Richard had tried to goad him into a fistfight.

Richard is about to look away again when Graham finally speaks.

“ _Is_ that you want, Richard?”

His voice is very quiet, gentle even, barely audible over the din of the crowded pub.

Richard doesn’t answer. Their stews arrive and Graham doesn’t push, just changes the subject like he’d never asked the question in the first place, coaxing Richard into talking about the house, the garden, his writing, his next book.

It’s not until Richard’s back in Highfield and getting ready for bed that he realises—he’d spoken more to Graham that evening than he’d spoken to anyone else in months.

**

“Richard?” The reception in this part of the house isn’t the greatest but Richard can still hear the surprise in Graham’s voice. “Are you all right?”

Richard stops short. “Ah,” he says, caught off guard, “why do you ask?”

There’s a short, disbelieving silence.

“It’s been nearly a month since we last spoke.”

“Oh.”

Richard hadn't realised it had been that long. Time seemed to move differently since Alan had left, some days never ending and others gone in the blink of an eye.

“I had to go back to London for a little while,” he adds, not really sure why he feels compelled to explain himself to a man he barely knows. “I’m—I’m sorry for not replying to your quote sooner.”

“Never mind about the quote,” Graham says dismissively. “Are you all right?” He seems to hesitate, before adding, “London doesn’t seem like… a very enjoyable place for you.”

This isn't the conversation Richard expected to be having. He closes his eyes, unsettled. There's a carefulness in Graham's choice of words that can't be accidental.

“It’s not,” he replies, eventually. He waits for the follow up questions but Graham is silent on the other end of the line. Waiting, perhaps. But for what? “I’m—” Richard adds, not really knowing what to say. “I’m back now.”

There’s a brief pause.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Graham replies. There’s a smile in his voice now and Richard feels a little less on edge.

The conversation turns back to the repairs. A couple of hours later, Richard is emailing the signed contract back to Graham and looking over the schedule they’d revised together. Despite winter’s rapid approach, Graham assured him that indoor work could begin in a week’s time, and if everything went according to plan the house would be more or less complete by midsummer.

Six months, Richard thinks, staring at the proposed completion date. In six months, it would be a year since Alan had left. An entire year, almost to the day.

There had been times when even 24 hours without him had felt like an age, when the prospect of having to make it to the next morning in an excruciatingly empty house seemed utterly impossible, knowing that Alan was somewhere else now, _with_ someone else now, and that he was never coming back. Richard had spent countless sleepless nights torturing himself, imagining Alan and his new partner together while he lay in the darkness alone, wrapped tightly in blankets and surrounded by pillows, trying in vain to fill the cold, newly empty space in the bed. Thought about them smiling and laughing, and kissing and fucking, while he stared at the clock and wondered why morning still hadn’t come yet.

A year, Richard thinks again. He’s halfway there already.

Some days, he’s okay.

On others, it still hurts like hell.

**

“Coffee?”

Graham jumps a little, startled.

“I know you’re from the city,” he says as he turns around, “but I thought not sneaking up on someone holding an axe was just common knowledge.”

“Oh.” Richard flushes a little. “Sorry.”

“Relax, Richard,” Graham says with a small laugh. “I’m kidding.”

He wedges the axe into a tree stump and accepts the coffee with a quiet thank you. The two of them lapse into a surprisingly comfortable silence, looking out over the grounds of the estate.

Graham had decided to start on some of the outdoor work after all, wanting to take advantage of a spell of unseasonably good weather. He’d cleared a lot of the debris away, enlisting the neighbours’ help in getting rid of most of the dead plants and moving fallen trees and branches aside. Aidan, Adam and Dean were happy to help—or to have an excuse to pry—but Richard was grateful regardless of the reason they’d agreed to work for free. Only Graham is here now, though, and Richard is glad for the quiet company. It’s a cold but clear day, the sky blue and the air crisp. Graham’s in another woolly jumper—a deep green one, this time—and Richard absently thinks about how well he seems to fit in out here, outdoors amongst the fields and the trees and the cool, autumn air.

“I’ve been thinking,” Richard says. “You won’t be able to work outdoors much longer, will you?”

“No,” Graham agrees. “We’ve been lucky with the weather so far but winter won’t be held back forever.”

“So you’ll start working on the indoor repairs, then?”

“Yes.” Graham looks at him over the rim of his mug as he takes another sip of coffee. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Richard says, a little puzzled by the question. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Graham shrugs. “Not that long ago you told me that you just wanted to be left alone. Working out here is one thing, but once I’m inside… ” he trails off. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Richard blinks in surprise. He’d forgotten about what he’d said in the pub that night, weeks ago now.

“You wouldn’t be,” he says, and is vaguely surprised to find that he means it. “In fact,” he adds, “I was actually going to ask whether you wanted a key of your own.”

Now it’s Graham who looks surprised.

“Really?”

“Really.” Richard chuckles a little. “It’s for the best, honestly. I can get a little, ah—caught up in my work. To the point where I may not answer someone knocking on the door, so…” Richard glances over and smiles ruefully. “Without your own key you may not get into the house at all.”

Richard expects laughter, or some teasing remark about obsessive, reclusive writers. But Graham just smiles back, eyes crinkling in the corners, before he reaches out and gives Richard’s arm a brief squeeze. His hand is very warm.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he says.

Richard doesn’t know what to say to that but Graham doesn’t seem to mind. He finishes his coffee and resumes chopping the fallen branches into firewood, and Richard settles down on a nearby log to do a little a work himself. He starts jotting down the outline for a couple of chapters of his book, the rhythmic sound of Graham working a surprisingly pleasant backdrop to his thoughts.

**

Richard leans against the doorframe, a steaming mug of tea cupped between his hands. He shivers a little but makes no move to close the door.

Graham is out there, in back garden, moving piles of freshly chopped firewood into the shed ahead of the coming snowfall. He catches sight of Richard watching and raises an arm in greeting, and Richard blinks a few times, mildly embarrassed to be caught staring. The feeling doesn’t last long, though—he likes watching Graham work. There’s something calming about seeing him in the grounds, or hearing him putter about the house while Richard’s holed up in his office. He chases away the echoing silence, fills up the estate’s vast spaces with the sound of his footsteps and hammer and axe.

Graham comes to work at the house almost every day, sometimes already there when Richard wakes up in the morning, sometimes staying late into the night. Once, a few days ago, Richard had woken up before dawn, jerked awake by yet another dream filled with Alan’s beautiful, cruel face, and instead of the heavy silence of an empty house Richard heard the quiet strains of classical music coming from somewhere downstairs.

He’d wandered out of his room then, still half asleep, Alan still on his mind. He found Graham in the front room, half a dozen beeswax candles lit around him, the faint scent of honey in the air. Graham was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, carving something out of a small block of wood. The flames flickered as Richard approached and Graham looked up then, meeting Richard’s eyes with a smile, the golden glow of the candlelight making the look in his eyes seem impossibly warm.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” he’d asked. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came by early.”

Richard shook his head.

“Can I…” he began. “Would it be okay if I sat here, for a while?” He nodded to the couch Graham was leaning against.

“It’s your house, Richard.”

“I know, I just mean…” He trailed off. It all seemed strangely surreal—the sight of Graham carving in the candlelight, the plaintive, beautiful strains of Barber’s _Adagio for Strings_ in the air. A part of him wondered if he was still dreaming. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

Graham had smiled at that, and looked down at his carving. It was of flowers—tudor roses, to decorate the staircase, and to match Richard’s subject of expertise.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Graham replied. Richard just stared at him, at a loss for what to say, but Graham's smile just widened. “Come on,” he added. “Take a seat.”

And so they’d sat together, Graham continuing to work on his carving while Richard watched in companionable silence, as dawn broke over the woods outside and slowly filled the room with sweet morning light.

Richard is jolted from his reverie by the sight of Graham coming towards him now, cheeks a little red beneath his beard from being outside in the wind.

“Damn, it’s getting cold,” he says as he approaches, and Richard finds himself holding out his mug, offering. Graham looks a little surprised but accepts gratefully, taking a careful sip before handing it back. “I’ve got to say,” he adds with a small smile, “you do make a damn good cuppa.”

“One of my few virtues,” Richard replies drily, and laughs a little when Graham raises an intrigued eyebrow. “Come inside, you must be freezing.”

They end up having dinner together, Richard throwing together some pasta while Graham asks him more about his book.

“Are you really so interested in medieval English history?” Richard asks, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

Aside from his colleagues Richard didn’t often talk to other people about his work, knowing from experience that most people’s eyes would start to glaze over once they realised that he didn’t actually write novels—his PhD was in the Plantagenet dynasty and his books were all about real history, not fiction. Even Alan had admitted that the subject bored him, a few months after their first date.

And a few years after that, Richard remembers now, when he came home to find Alan twined around another man, both of them so absorbed in each other that they hadn’t even noticed Richard staring in the doorway—Richard realised that it wasn’t just his work that Alan found boring, either.

Stagnant, he’d said of their relationship. Lifelesss. Fucking _do_ something, Alan had said then, when he finally realised that Richard was there and it was pointless trying to explain it away. And when Richard hadn’t done anything—hadn’t been able to move, let alone speak—Alan had smiled bitterly and shaken his head.

“Typical, Richard,” he muttered. “You come home to find me fucking someone else and you can’t even let go enough to muster up a reaction.” He laughed, humourlessly. “I’ve known other people who are self-possessed, but Richard—you take the fucking cake.” Then he looked up, into Richard’s eyes, and Richard saw something flicker there, a certain desperation that he heard in Alan’s voice too, when he spoke what would be the last words he ever said to him.

“Do you feel anything at _all_?”

“Richard?”

He jumps when he feels Graham’s hand on his arm. Richard blinks rapidly, half his mind still trapped in the memory of the day his entire life seemed to come to a screeching halt. A part of him thinks it will always be like this now—one foot in the past and one in the present, never able to get out for long enough to actually make it to the future.

The worry on Graham’s face intensifies and Richard wonders how long he’s been silent, wonders how much of what he was remembering is showing now on his face.  

“Sorry,” he manages. His throat is dry and his voice comes out sounding brittle and thin. He reaches for the wine, pours himself a large glass and takes a big sip. “I—”

“It’s okay,” Graham interrupts. He opens his mouth to say more and Richard braces himself, but once again, Graham simply asks if he’s all right.

Richard stares at him. The wine and the memories and Graham’s apparently endless patience loosen his tongue, misdirected frustration starting to bubble over.

“Why don’t you ever ask for the details?” he bursts out, fingers tightening around his wine glass. “Why do you always just ask if I’m okay?”

Graham just looks at him for a moment. There’s compassion in his eyes, and yes, curiosity too, but Graham just shakes his head and shrugs.

“I suppose it's the only answer I’m interested in.”

Richard quiets immediately. Graham never seems to say what other people would say, never seems to react to things the way Richard expects.

There’s another beat of silence before Graham adds, “And to answer your question—yes, I _am_ that interested in medieval history.” He pauses. “At least, I am in the way you tell it.”

Richard freezes, oddly taken aback. He takes another sip of his wine, stalling for time to think, but Graham doesn't seem bothered by the quiet at all, watching him from across the table with an understanding look on his face. Richard knows Graham has just given him a way out, an easy way to change the subject and let the obvious questions remain unasked. And despite the lingering memories, despite still feeling a little on edge from just how unpredictable Graham was, Richard is grateful for it all the same.

They spend the rest of evening talking about Richard's work, about the Wars of the Roses and his namesake Richard the Third. And for the first time in a long time, Alan stays on the periphery, Graham's patient, steady presence front and centre instead.

**

Richard pulls the drapes apart and watches the huge storm batter the grounds, fierce wind violently howling through the bare trees as curtains of sleet turn the gardens into a sea of mud. Thundersnow, the news called it, and it looked positively apocalyptic. Richard is more than a little worried—Graham had worked so hard to get things ready to start landscaping by springtime. This storm could destroy weeks of preparation in a single night.

The lights flicker and Richard checks the batteries in his flashlight again, prepared in case the power goes out. A sudden clap of thunder makes him look outside again, just in time to see more blue-white bolts of lightning crack the sky open before another round of thunder shakes the house. The noise of the storm is deafening.

It’s why it takes him a minute to realise that the insistent rat-a-tat-tat coming from the front room isn’t just the rain—it’s someone knocking on his front door.

Richard hurries downstairs. It's probably Graham, he reasons, and Richard wonders how he even managed to drive over in this hellish storm. He unlocks the door, the sleet and wind stinging his face as soon as it’s open.

“Gra—” he starts, and stops dead.

“Hi,” Alan says, and smiles.

**

“Sorry for dropping by unannounced.”

Alan is sitting at the kitchen table now, rubbing his wet hair with a towel Richard had given him earlier. He’s wearing Richard’s clothes too, his own clothes too soaked and freezing cold to keep on, and seeing him like this—in his kitchen, in his clothes, drinking his tea—Richard has to look away from the familiarity of it, from the knowledge that it wasn’t his reality anymore and never would be again.

“I tried to call ahead,” Alan adds, “but I guess your reception isn’t too good. I couldn’t get through.”

“It’s all right,” Richard says, even though they both know that it isn’t. He hesitates. “Why are you here?”

Alan just looks at him for a minute. Richard refuses to meet his eyes, turning away and busying himself at the sink. Eventually, he hears Alan stand.

“I think you’ve washed that teacup about ten times,” he says softly. Richard goes still when he feels Alan carefully press up behind him, hands circling his waist. This close up, Richard can smell him, his aftershave and shampoo, and Richard closes his eyes against it, against the achingly familiar feeling of Alan standing so close.

“Richard,” Alan whispers in his ear. “Turn around. Look at me.” He leans in, closer still. “I've missed this. Missed you.”

Richard inhales sharply. He thinks of London, of the words Alan had said the day he left, of his own damning silence. He knows he’s probably better off here, in this tiny village with its nosy neighbours and weirdly patient tradesman and unexpectedly delicious stew. He knows this neglected estate could do him more good than London ever has, and he knows that eventually, with time, he could build a new life here. A content one, even, if not a happy one.

“Richard,” Alan repeats, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

Richard goes very still. He knows this is a mistake. He _knows_ this.

But he turns around anyway, pulled by a voice in his ear that he hasn’t heard in months, by a warmth against his back that he used to think he’d have for years. Forever, even.

“Yes,” Richard whispers, answering the silent question, and although Alan’s smile against his mouth makes his chest feel hollow, Richard just grabs him by the hips and pulls him even closer.

**

The sound of a door banging open wakes Richard with a jolt, wincing as sunlight pours in through the still-open curtains of his bedroom.

“Richard, are you—”

The silence is sudden, shocked, the words cut off as cleanly as someone pressing a mute button. It takes a minute for Richard’s eyes to focus enough to see Graham standing in the doorway, staring.

“Graham,” he murmurs, voice a little rough. Graham flinches at the sound of it and Richard frowns. “Is something wrong?”

Graham shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I—I was late.” He pauses, seemingly at a loss for words. “It was so quiet, I thought you were—” he stops, suddenly, staring at Richard with an odd look in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he adds, and something in his voice makes Richard’s frown deepen.

He sits up, sheets twisting around his waist.

“What time is it,” he starts to ask, then freezes when he catches sight of himself in the mirror by the door. There are marks on his neck, and on his bare chest and shoulders, sheets pooling around his thighs. He’s very obviously naked under there and Richard feels his face start to burn when he realises his body is still a little sore in an old, and very familiar, way.

Richard closes his eyes. He doesn’t need to check to know that Alan is already gone. Again.

“I’m sorry,” Graham repeats. “I shouldn’t have barged in. It's not my—I’m sorry.”

Richard's eyes are still closed when he hears Graham turn around and leave, quickly, before Richard can respond, and it’s only a minute or two before his footsteps fade away entirely, leaving nothing but a deep, suffocating silence.

**

Richard  takes a long shower before he heads down to the kitchen, cataloguing all the marks scattered over his skin. They're the only trace left of Alan’s presence here and it seems fitting, in an awful sort of way, and Richard stays under the spray until the water goes cold.

He can hear Graham outside now as he makes himself a cup of tea. Chopping up yet more firewood, from the emergency stash he insists Richard keeps well-stocked in the shed. The sound of Graham working makes Richard feel— _something_ , and he frowns when he thinks, irrationally, that it might be guilt. What did he have to feel guilty about? Ashamed of his own weakness, sure. But he hadn’t hurt anyone but himself.

Still, Graham had seemed—upset? Worried, maybe. And Richard was only just starting to understand how much he valued Graham's presence in his life now; how somewhere along the line, he’d changed from being just the local carpenter to being a friend. A good friend, even. He spent more time with Graham than anyone else these days, and the thought of that easy friendship changing, of turning into something stilted and awkward instead, makes something twist a little in his gut.

The old Richard—the one in London, the one who hadn’t been able to say a word when he’d seen the man he loved fucking someone else in their very bed—he would have stayed inside with his tea anyway, would've locked himself in his office and ignored the sound of Graham outside. Would’ve ignored the whole situation. He'd have waited it out until it became yet another incident swept under the rug, and just swallowed whatever he felt—guilt or shame or sadness or anger—until, inevitably, it boiled over and blew up, and he ended up lashing out over something far more trivial.

Richard knows that Alan had been unkind to him. Cruel, even. But he also knows that he’d had a point—Richard wasn’t entirely blameless in the way things ended up.

He stands in the kitchen a minute longer, listening to sound of the axe hitting the stump, and realises something else has changed too, since he moved here.

He doesn’t want to be that version of himself anymore.

**

"Can I help?"

Graham doesn’t look up, but there’s a slight pause before he adds another log to the stack of firewood beside him.

“I wouldn't want you to damage your hands,” he says, setting a new log onto the chopping block. “You’re a writer, after all. Your hands are your fortune.”

Richard frowns a little.

“I'm not made of glass, you know.”

Graham finally glances over. He doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but after a moment’s pause he shrugs and nods to the tree stump in front of him.

"If you really want to help, you can lift the logs up here for me to chop."

They work in silence for a while, the only sound between them the steady swing-and-crack of the axe as Graham efficiently turns each log into firewood. They quickly find a rhythm; log up, axe down, wood stacked. The repetition is oddly relaxing, despite the intense cold of the winter morning. It’s still cloudy, the sky grey with the promise of more foul weather, and Graham’s cream-coloured jumper seems like the only warm bright spot in the drab, barren landscape.

“Sorry I was so late to arrive,” Graham suddenly says.

“No,” Richard replies, fumbling a little as he sets the wood down. “It's fine, really…”

He trails off when he feels his ears go hot, remembering how he’d looked when Graham found him earlier that morning.

“I had to clear debris from the road,” Graham adds. “Couldn't get the van around it.”

“Oh—did your house get damaged much?”

Graham shrugs before lifting the axe and splitting another log.

“Bit dinged, but nothing too major.” He tosses the wood onto the stack and gestures to the yard. “I had a quick look round here too…” He pauses, then adds, “Looks like you took a bit of a hit.”

Richard closes his eyes. _Perfect timing_ , he thinks.  _Fucking typical._ Just when things were starting to get a little easier, just when he was beginning to think that he’d maybe be okay—he gives in and lets Alan stay the night and surprise, surprise: he wakes up stark naked and utterly alone, with cold sheets and a damaged—

 _House,_ he thinks firmly. _A damaged h—_

“Don't worry, though,” Graham adds quietly.

Richard’s eyes flicker open.

“Oh?” he asks, barely breathing the word out. Graham nods.

“It's nothing I can't fix.”

They work in silence after that, a silence that’s just a little on the wrong side of comfortable, but soon enough all the wood is chopped and the task is done. Richard helps Graham haul it back into the shed with the rest of the firewood, and afterwards he just stands there, watching Graham fussing with his tools.

“Is he moving in soon, then?”

“Moving in?” Richard repeats blankly.

Graham glances up.

“Your partner.”

Richard freezes, wondering if Graham had seen anything else that morning. Alan leaving, maybe, while Richard still lay asleep, unaware and… unwanted. He swallows against the sudden lump in his throat.

“He’s not—” Richard starts, and stops. “I’m not—”

“No one would mind, you know,” Graham interrupts. He’s busy at the workbench and only briefly meets Richard’s eyes. “I mean yeah, it’s a small village so gossip’s inevitable but…” he trails off. “No one would care about him being—well. A _him_.”

The conversation isn’t going in the direction Richard had expected. He’d thought Graham would be full of questions; thought that for once, he’d actually be prepared to answer some of them.

“That’s… good to know,” he says, a little uncertainly. “But he wasn’t—I don’t have—” Richard cuts himself off. “No,” he says, a little surprised by the firmness of his own voice. “No one else is moving in.”

Graham stops the pretense of working at the bench and finally gives Richard a long, searching look. When he finally speaks, his voice is almost gentle.

“You all alone in that big old house?”

Richard takes a breath.

“I suppose so.”

Graham just stares him, some expression on his face that Richard doesn’t understand but finds surprisingly difficult to look away from. Eventually, Graham speaks again, and again, it isn’t what Richard expects.

“Have you had anything to eat yet?”

Richard blinks in surprise, then shakes his head.

“If you let me at your kitchen,” Graham adds, “I’m told I can do a mean breakfast.”

“You—you’re going to cook for me?”

“As a thank you for helping me,” Graham says, gesturing to the firewood piled up against the wall.

“I didn’t do much,” Richard starts to protest, but falls silent when Graham suddenly smiles.

“But I appreciate what you've done for me all the same.”

**

Richard’s eyes widen a little.

“Wow, this is really good.”

Graham chuckles.

“Don’t act so surprised. I told you I was good at breakfasts.”

He takes a seat opposite Richard, reaching for the maple syrup and drowning his own stack of pancakes with it. Richard quickly shoves another forkful into his mouth, savouring the way the sweet syrup is offset by a pat of salty butter.

“Just breakfasts?” he asks.

Graham grins. “What can I say, I’m good at the morning after.” He stops suddenly, grin frozen on his face, when he realises what he'd just said. “Sorry,” he adds quickly, “I didn't mean—”

“It's fine,” Richard says automatically, although his voice sounds a little strained.

Graham seems to hesitate, looking like wants to say more, but turns back to his pancakes when Richard doesn’t elaborate.

Richard watches him eating for a moment, at the way he cuts small, precise slices first instead of just digging right in. A carpenter’s way of eating, Richard supposes, and despite everything, he smiles a little at the thought. But then he notices something he hadn’t seen before, something that, for some reason, makes his smile start to falter.

A ring, a thin, plain gold band, on Graham’s left ring finger.

Richard looks away in case Graham sees him staring at it. His pancakes seem less sweet now and he reaches for the syrup again, but the bottle is just out of reach.

“Here,” Graham says, handing it over. Richard flinches when their fingers brush and Graham immediately goes still.

“Sorry,” Richard says. “I—sorry.”

“For what?”

Richard doesn’t actually know how to answer that so he just shrugs instead, busying himself with his food. He can still feel Graham’s eyes on him though and eventually, Richard clears his throat.

“Your wife must appreciate them,” he says. “Your cooking skills, I mean.”

A beat of silence, and then:

“I don’t have a wife.”

Richard lifts his head to find that Graham is looking right at him.

“Oh?”

“I’ve lived on my own for a long time.”

“But,” Richard starts, unable to stop himself, “your ring…”

“Hmm? Oh.” Graham lifts his hand, the gold band glinting in the late morning light. “This is… it’s old. It’s not a wedding ring.” He trails off, lost in thought for a moment. Then he shakes his head and adds, almost to himself, “This village seems to attract a lot of people who want to run away and hide.”

Richard stares.

“Is that what you did?”

Graham’s eyes meet his again.

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“I—” Richard stops, suddenly, and blinks several times. He lowers his head, staring blankly at his half-eaten pancakes. He thinks of last night, and of this morning, and of the man who was in this very kitchen a few hours ago, versus the man who is here now. One who swept in with the storm that battered his house only to disappear as soon as the weather cleared, and one who stayed to survey the damage and will help him clean it all up.

One who still stays, even now.

Richard looks up from his plate. Graham is still watching him.

“Yes,” he admits. “It was what I was doing.”

Graham tilts his head to the side.

“And now?”

Richard thinks for a moment.

“Now…”

He watches Graham watching him, at his patient blue eyes lit with something that Richard thinks that maybe, maybe he understands now. He'd never noticed, before, just how blue they were. How perceptive. How kind.

“Now,” he repeats, slowly, still half-figuring it out, “I think maybe I want to stop.”

**

Alan tries to call that night, and the night after that, too. Richard listens to his phone ringing, staring at Alan’s name and face filling the screen as the ringing gets louder and louder.

Not that long ago, Richard would’ve answered on the first ring, would’ve fumbled and almost dropped the phone in his haste to hear Alan’s voice again. There would have been foolish hope and desperate apologies, despite the fact that Alan was the one who’d betrayed him and not the other way around. Richard would’ve buried his anger and his hurt and his pride, let himself be pulled back into something that, deep down, he knows was over long before he walked in on Alan fucking another man.

The thing is, Richard didn't often take risks. He liked to think things through, examine them from every possible angle, and then choose the course of action that had the best chance of success. It’s part of why he loves history so much—the story’s already been written; the ending’s already been set. There are still countless angles to pore over and study but the uncertainty has passed; the fear of all the what-ifs and maybes and if-onlys rendered moot.

There’s safety in taking a road that you know will lead you to a place you’re already familiar with, even if you're not entirely sure it's really where you want to be. 

Richard stares at his phone, listens to it ring again and again and again.

Buying Highfield was a risk. Moving to Cumbria was a risk.

Richard thinks of Graham, of his warm-looking jumpers and kind, patient smiles.

The phone stops ringing. Richard picks it up and types a brief message, then hits send without letting himself think about it too much.

_Goodbye, Alan._

Then he deletes Alan’s contact details and turns the phone off completely.

Richard expected to feel sad about this, about a definitive, no-going-back ending. Sad, or lonely, or maybe even a little angry too.

In the end, though, all he really feels is relief.

**

“God _damn_.”

It’s said so emphatically that Richard’s pulled away from the intrigues of Tudor England and back into the present day. He looks up from the kitchen table where he’d been working, lunch forgotten, to see Dean, Aidan and Adam all gawking at something through the window, wide-eyed and silent.

Richard’s curiosity is piqued despite himself and he heads over to the window too.

“What are you look—”

Graham is outside, tending to the lavender that he’d planted earlier in the year, lining either side of new garden path. Which wouldn’t normally warrant his neighbours’ uncharacteristic silence except for the fact that Graham is also wearing nothing but low-slung jeans and a pair of gardening gloves.

He’s flushed from the early spring sun as well as the physical work, afternoon light slanting over muscles in his back and stomach and chest. A light sheen of sweat highlights the broadness of his shoulders and the flex of his biceps as he works, and Richard can only stare as Graham easily hefts a huge bag of potting mix over his shoulder like it weighs nothing at all. He looks strong, and capable, and— _good_ , Richard realises. Really, really good.

They’ve been spending more and more time together as the weather got warmer, Graham now able to work in the grounds as often as in the house. Something had changed between them since that morning Graham had made him breakfast, Richard is sure of that, but whenever he thinks something might happen—when Graham stood a little too close, or when he caught Richard staring, or when they had a little too much wine with dinner—nothing ever did. Graham would step back, or look away, or claim exhaustion and leave.

Richard knows it’s probably for the best—Alan’s still a raw memory and he doesn’t want to ruin his friendship with Graham by turning him into some kind of rebound guy—but it was still a little frustrating, too.

Richard stares as Graham pauses to stretch a little, eyes falling shut and hands on his hips as he arches his back with a soft groan.

Frustrating, in more ways than one.

“He looks thirsty, don’t you think?”

Richard jumps. He’d forgotten the others were there. He glances over to find all three of them staring at _him_ now, and not at Graham.

“Don’t you think?” repeats Dean.

Richard shakes head. “I’m sorry?”

“Graham,” Adam clarifies. “Don’t you think he looks thirsty?”

“I think he looks thirsty,” Aidan says. “Deano?”

“Definitely thirsty,” Dean agrees, although he’s looking at Richard as he says it.

“Oh, I have an idea,” Aidan adds, so casually that it’s clearly anything but, “why don’t you go outside and offer him a glass of that delicious homemade lemonade from Jimmy’s?”

Richard frowns. “I don’t have any le—”

From seemingly nowhere, Adam produces a pitcher of said lemonade and two tall glasses on a tray.

“What a strange coincidence,” Dean says, deadpan. “We happen to have some right here.”

Then the three of them turn to stare at Richard again, identical looks of expectation on their faces.

Richard just stands there, a little bewildered.

“Maybe the three of you should offer it,” he starts to say, only to find the tray shoved at his chest until he’s forced to take it while two pairs of hands start pushing him towards the back door.

“Go get him, tiger,” Dean whispers, laughter in his voice, before there’s a hard shove against his back and the door closes behind him. Richard suddenly finds himself in the backyard, stumbling a little, and the next thing he knows Graham is at his side, shirtless and sweaty, a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Easy,” Graham murmurs. “You okay?”

“Uh,” Richard says. Graham is standing so close that Richard can practically taste the salty tang of his skin, can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. “Sorry,” he manages. “What were we talking about again?”

Graham laughs a little, a low quiet rumble that does terrible things to Richard’s pulse.

“Nothing, yet.” He nods to the tray. “Is that for me?”

“Oh—yes. Yes, it is.” Richard looks around for somewhere to set it down but Graham suddenly steps closer, into his personal space, and Richard promptly loses his train of thought.

“Here,” Graham says, taking the tray from his hands. “Let me.”

He turns around before setting the tray on the ground and without any warning Richard suddenly gets a close-up view of just how well Graham filled out those jeans.

“Here,” Graham repeats, when he’s straightened up again. He holds out a glass of lemonade and Richard takes it blindly, automatically taking a sip.

“It’s good,” he starts to say, only to almost choke on it instead when Graham raises the entire jug to his lips, eschewing the other glass, and starts chugging it down straight from the pitcher. He tilts his head right back, exposing the long line of his throat, and all Richard can do is stare as Graham drinks and drinks, throat working as he swallows, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck. Richard watches it roll over his collarbone, following the curve of a pectoral muscle before it runs past a nipple and down to his abdomen, ending up somewhere near the top his jeans.

“I needed that,” Graham says, when he’s done. Richard’s head snaps up, face burning, but Graham just smiles. “Thanks,” he adds, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.  

“You’re welcome,” Richard manages. He’s suddenly aware of how dry his throat is and hurriedly takes a swig of his own drink, but his haste just makes it go down the wrong pipe. He starts coughing and Graham immediately closes the distance between them again, one big warm hand rubbing soothing circles on Richard's back.

It eases his cough well enough, but does absolutely nothing to help him catch his breath.

**

“You’ve got a talent for that, you know.”

Graham looks up from the flowers he’d been arranging at the kitchen bench and grins.

“Too bad the village already has a florist. I could’ve made a late career change.”

Richard ducks his head to hide a smile of his own. He walks over and admires the arrangement for a moment before running his fingers over all the blooms. Some are various shades of pink, some purplish-blue, and others are a pretty, pure white, but all of them are from the garden. His _own_ garden, Richard marvels. He’s never really thought about it before but he can’t deny that having bunches of fresh flowers all over the house did seem to lift his mood. 

“Just as well,” Richard replies. “Who’d finish my cupboards then?”

“Oh, I see,” Graham says, trying not to laugh. “You only want me for my carpentry skills.”

Richard freezes for a second but can’t help glancing over. Graham isn’t looking him—his eyes are still on the flowers—but there’s a certain softness in his smile that makes Richard suspect his choice of words was no accident.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says, voice only the tiniest bit unsteady. He pauses. “It’s also for your pancakes.”

Graham does laugh this time, shaking his head as he turns to face Richard properly. For a moment he says nothing, just looks at Richard with laughter and warmth in his eyes, until Richard feels his face heat and has to look away.

“Do you know what they are?” Graham asks. “The flowers?”

“No,” Richard admits. “I know you planted some roses and lavender, but there aren’t any in this bunch.” He chuckles, mildly embarrassed. “That’s about the extent of my knowledge, I’m afraid.” 

He reaches out to touch them again, but goes still when Graham’s fingers close around the top of his hand. 

“These,” Graham says, brushing Richard’s palm over the fullest, pinkest blooms, “are peonies.”

The flowers are lush and round and the petals feel impossibly soft, almost like skin. Richard is suddenly very aware of just how close Graham is standing, his breath ghosting over Richard’s ear as he speaks.

Graham slowly moves their hands up to the large white flowers at the back of the vase.

“Lilies.”

Graham’s voice has gone soft, intimate even, and Richard has to swallow. He slowly runs Richard’s fingertips over the long, elegant petals, following the curve as they curl back from buttery yellow stamens at the centre of each flower.

“These are the ones you can probably smell… they’re very fragrant.”

Then he gently pulls Richard’s hand to the smallest blossoms in the vase—small, but intensely coloured. The purple flowers are packed tightly around tall, slender green stems, and Richard’s breath catches a little at the sensation of them just barely grazing the sensitive skin of his palm.

“And these,” Graham says, “are delphinium.”

Richard doesn’t move. Graham’s hand is still on his.

“They’re beautiful,” he says, just as quietly. He can feel Graham’s eyes on him but can’t quite make himself turn to face him. 

“They’re yours,” Graham says.

“You gave them to me. I mean,” Richard hurries to add, “you planted them for me.” He glances over, briefly, and sees Graham smile.

 It’s when he turns to look back at the flowers that Richard notices it.

“Your ring,” he says suddenly, turning his hand over until their palms are pressed together. He curls his fingers and unthinkingly pulls Graham closer to get a better look. “You’re not wearing it.”

He looks up to find Graham watching him, gaze steady and calm.

“No,” he says simply. “I’m not.”

Richard just looks at him, the obvious question in his eyes.

“It was a gift,” Graham adds. “From someone who was very important to me. But he… hasn’t been a part of my life for a long time now.”

Richard hesitates, but asks anyway.

“Why did you keep wearing it?”

Unexpectedly, Graham smiles again.

“As a reminder, I think.”

Richard swallows. “Oh,” he says softly, and starts to pull away.

“Not of him specifically,” Graham adds.

Richard stills. 

“What, then?”

 Graham’s gaze goes distant. It seems like a long time before he answers.

“That—that it can be _good_ ,” he says, sounding a little surprised at himself. “Despite all the risks and the fear and the potential for it all to backfire completely… it can be _good_ , too.” He stops, and meets Richard’s eyes again. “It can be worth it.”

Richard has no idea what to say to that. 

“I—” he starts, and stops. He thinks for a moment. “Why did you take it off? The ring.”

Graham looks at him steadily and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. 

“I don’t need the reminder anymore. I just know it.”

Richard takes a breath. 

“You’ve no doubts?”

“None at all.” 

The sudden sound of Graham’s phone ringing makes them both jump. But it’s not until Graham steps away to answer it, an apologetic look on his face, that Richard realises—up until then, they’d still been holding hands the entire time. 

**

“Richard, honestly, it’s all right.”

There’s laughter in Graham’s voice but Richard still flushes.

“I really am sorry,” he repeats, for the third time. “Work’s been really—I must’ve forgotten to go shopping. You know I usually keep the kitchen better stocked than this.”  
  
He gestures to the not-very-impressive spread he’s managed to scrounge up from the near-empty fridge and pantry: some butter, a few slices of bacon, a sad-looking tomato and half a loaf of almost-stale bread.

“Wait a minute,” Graham says suddenly, and steps past Richard to pull the fridge open. “I could’ve sworn there was… a-ha!” He reaches into a far corner, past a half-empty bottle of white wine. “I knew you had some cheese in here too.” Graham adds it to the counter and surveys what they have to work with. “Well, that’s not bad at all, really. I’d say we have the makings of a very reasonable lunch, don’t you?”

“If you say so,” Richard says dubiously. 

“Oh ye of little faith,” Graham laughs. “Watch and learn, city boy. Or, actually—” he glances over and catches Richard’s eye. “Why don’t we do it together?” He smiles. “Two hands make light work, and all that.”

There’s no way Richard could refuse when Graham’s smiling at him like that. He obediently starts slicing the bread and the lone tomato while Graham gets a frying pan on the heat. A little while later, when they’ve just finished assembling a pile of bacon butties, they hear Dean, Adam and Aidan coming down the stairs. The three of them had been in up in one of the spare bedrooms, helping to clean up the mess from one of the last parts of the house to be renovated. The sound of their bickering and laughter makes Richard grin, recalling the last time the three of them were here, just a couple of weeks ago.

He and Graham had been watching them weeding in the back garden—or at least, they were supposed to be weeding. What they were actually doing was more like laying around on the grass, soaking up the late spring sun and occasionally throwing handfuls of clover at each other. Still, they were actually helpful often enough that Richard had wondered aloud why they agreed to work for little more than the odd home-cooked meal. Graham looked at him for a second before he started to laugh.

“What?” Richard asked. “What’s so funny?”

“You are,” Graham had replied. He shook his head. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

 Richard was baffled. “See what?”

“They don’t come over and help for free food, Richard.” Graham paused, like he was still hoping Richard would put it together himself. When he didn’t, Graham shook his head again. “They help because they’re your _friends_.”

Richard raises a knife in salute as they wander into the kitchen now, arguing about a video game or football or, possibly, a video game about football. Either way, Richard knows nothing about it so he tunes them out, helping Graham set the table instead.

They don’t say much but it’s not uncomfortable at all, both of them moving around each other with practiced ease as they reach for plates and glasses and forks and knives. They’ve spent a lot of time in this kitchen together, Richard muses, sharing dozens of meals and countless tea and coffee breaks. Richard’s even taken to stocking the pantry with the biscuits each of them prefer—jaffa cakes for Graham, chocolate digestives for himself. Well, he amends, grinning to himself, he keeps them stocked when he remembers to do the shopping, at any rate. Graham notices the expression on his face and smiles back, a questioning look in his eyes, but Richard just chuckles and shakes his head. 

It takes a while for either of them to notice that Adam, Dean and Aidan have gone silent, abandoning their conversation in favour of watching them instead.

“Something wrong, boys?” Graham asks.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Adam says, aiming for casual and not making it by a fair distance. “Just, you know.”

"No,” Richard says, glancing at Graham and frowning a little. “I don’t think we do know.”

“This is all so…” Aidan trails off.

“Comfortable,” Adam supplies. “One might even say—”

“Domestic,” Dean says.

Richard freezes, but Dean just shrugs.

“It’s quite sweet, really.”

There’s more after that, of Aidan and Adam making vaguely suggestive remarks, of Dean half-heartedly trying to reign them in, of Graham throwing back non-committal responses. But Richard barely hears them. A sudden, deep sense of panic is bubbling up in his chest. 

Dean was right—they _were_ being domestic. Richard was generally a very private person but Graham has known his way around the kitchen—hell, has known his way around the whole house—for months now, even before Alan had turned up again. And more than that, Graham knew his way around _Richard_ , too. Knew when to stay quiet and when to draw him out, knew how to make him laugh and smile and yes, even blush. Richard has long admitted to himself that he’s attracted; after all, who wouldn’t be? Graham was kind and generous and thoughtful, full of sweet smiles and soft laughter, not to mention the fact that he was six-foot-plus of powerful, hard-bodied muscle. Richard’s only human. Of course he’s attracted.

But so soon after Alan, so soon after he’d just started to get his life back into some kind of order... Richard never expected this. Never. To find someone's presence so comforting that he thought nothing of seeing them all over his house, in all his private rooms and personal spaces; never thought that he’d look forward to someone’s company so much that even a day without them seemed wrong and strangely empty.

Richard is attracted, yes. But he isn’t entirely oblivious—he knows now that this is more than mere attraction, more than something he can just push aside and trivialise as a stupid crush on a good-looking handyman. And the thought of diving back into something that, with Alan, had ended up blowing up in his face— 

Richard can’t bear it. It’s too soon.

He’s barely aware of what the others are doing but Richard can see the look on Graham’s face, how he seems less and less amused the longer Richard stays silent. Eventually, Graham herds the other three out, ignoring their pleas to at least be given a sandwich or two to take home.

“Richard?” Graham asks, a little hesitant, when they’re finally alone again. “Are you all right?”

Richard sits down at the table and stares at the floor. Distantly, he wonders how many times Graham has asked him that.

He wonders how many times he’s answered truthfully.

“It—it’s nothing,” he lies. Something flashes in Graham’s eyes and Richard looks away quickly. Anger, frustration, disappointment—it doesn’t matter; whatever it is, Richard doesn’t want to know.

He hears Graham take a breath. And then:  
  
“It’s because he said we looked domestic,” Graham says quietly. “Isn’t it.”

“Oh, so now you want to talk,” Richard replies, unable to stop himself. He smiles thinly. Of course Graham would see right through him. In a way, he always has. “What happened to only being interested in whether I’m okay?”

Graham doesn’t answer right away. Richard looks up at the unexpected silence and sees Graham’s jaw tighten before he looks away again.

“I suppose,” Graham says slowly, “that I thought we’d gotten to the point where you were interested in whether _I_ was okay, too.” He pauses. “But I guess I was wrong.”

Richard’s head snaps up, eyes wide. _No_ , he wants to say. _No_ —

“It’s all right,” Graham adds quickly, before Richard can find his voice. “Really.”

And then Graham smiles, a small, wistful sort of smile that makes Richard’s stomach drop.

“It’s better to know for sure where things stand,” he adds. He takes another deep breath and nods, just once. “I should go.”

“But you haven’t had lunch,” Richard protests weakly. He falls silent when Graham just smiles again.  

“I wasn’t actually hungry,” he says. “I only made it for you.”

There’s nothing more to say after that. Graham gives his shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze before he leaves, promising to return in a couple of days to finish up the odds and ends that were still left to be done. And then Richard is alone, staring blankly at a pile of uneaten sandwiches as the warmth from Graham’s hand swiftly fades away.

**

Graham is true to his word and is back at the house two days later, fixing the molding on the sitting room ceiling. And he comes back almost every day after that, working inside the house as well as outside in the grounds. He’s still kind and attentive, and his laughter is still genuine and warm, and they still have meals and tea breaks together. They’re still _friends_ , really, and although Richard is grateful that he hadn’t cocked things up too badly he knows things aren’t quite the same anymore.

It’s why Richard is so surprised when he sleepily wanders downstairs one morning to find Graham at the foot of the steps, putting the finishing touches on the staircase he's been working on since he first started the job, months and months ago now.

“Morning,” Graham says, glancing up when Richard pauses on the landing.

“Morning,” Richard replies. “You’re here early today."

It’s been a while since he’s woken up with Graham already in the house and working; the bigger tasks were long since done and there hadn’t been a reason for the early starts anymore.

“I know,” Graham acknowledges. “But I’m starting another job today and this,” he says, carefully fixing something to the post, “is actually the very last thing left to do here.” He gently blows a little sawdust away before stepping back to check his work.

“It is?” Richard asks blankly. The renovations have taken so long that it’s almost impossible to imagine them actually finished and complete.

“Hard to believe,” Graham says, “but yes, it is.” He runs a hand over the post and smiles a little. “And now, I think it’s done.” He looks up at Richard, still on the staircase. “Come take a look.”

Richard descends the last few steps. When he sees what Graham has attached to the post, his breath catches a little in surprise.

A delicate carving of tudor roses, to match Richard’s subject of expertise. The carving he’d been working on in the candlelight, all those months ago.

“What do you think?” Graham asks.

Richard is silent for a moment, still half-asleep and strangely, quietly moved.

“I think it’s perfect,” he says softly, and means it.

He glances over and hesitates, but Graham is still smiling and Richard doesn’t let himself overthink it.

“Would you like to stay for breakfast?” he adds.

They haven’t had breakfast together since before that day with the sandwiches and Richard doesn’t think that’s a coincidence. But Graham looks genuinely regretful when he apologises and shakes his head.

“I can’t,” he says. “I told the new client I’d be there before she left for work this morning.”

“Oh,” Richard says, not quite able to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He takes a deep breath. “Well. I guess this is it, then.”

He’s caught completely off guard when Graham suddenly laughs.

“Jesus, Richard. I’m going to work to work at someone else’s house for the morning, not leaving the country.” He shakes his head, amused. “I can’t do breakfast today, but how about dinner? We should absolutely celebrate the end of a very, _very_ long job.”

Richard laughs a little too, embarrassed at his overreaction but too pleased about the dinner plans to care very much.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he replies, and starts thinking about the menu as soon as Graham has left.

**

“We should probably make a toast,” Richard says thoughtfully, when he finishes serving Graham some of the main course. It’s fairly simple stuff—minted lamb and an orange and fennel salad—but it smells good and Graham had made appreciative noises as soon as he walked through the front door.  

It seemed appropriate for the weather, too. It was warm outside but a summertime storm was brewing, the sky a heavy iron grey and the air thick with humidity.

“I agree,” Graham replies now. He lifts his wine glass and Richard does the same. There’s an expectant look on Graham's face but Richard shakes his head.

“Words aren’t my forte.”

Graham raises his eyebrows.

“Says the _writer_?” he asks pointedly.

Richard chuckles. “Writer, not talker. I’m fine with the written word but when it comes to saying things out loud…” he trails off and smiles ruefully. “I’m pretty useless, to be honest.” He nods to Graham. “Please,” he adds. “You do the honors.”

Graham thinks for a moment before clearing his throat and catching Richard’s eye.

“To friendship,” he says. “And new beginnings.”

He smiles, and Richard can’t help smiling back. They tap their glasses together before he takes a small sip. Pinot noir, his favourite. It tastes good, and even better with the lamb, and better still with Graham to share it with.

Their conversation is comfortably meandering in the way it always is between friends, not missing a beat despite odd non-sequiturs and occasional lapses into silence. By the time they get to dessert—chocolate mousse topped with fresh strawberries from a neighnour’s farm—Richard is more relaxed and full and—well, _happy_ than he’s been in a long, long time. Graham is sitting opposite him, in a beautiful kitchen that Graham had restored with his own hands, their bellies full of great food and smiles on both their faces.

“Thanks for dinner,” Graham says, leaning back in his chair and absently swirling his wine around his glass. “It was delicious.”

“Thank _you_ for fixing up the estate,” Richard replies. “Aidan was right—this place was a dump before you got your hands onto it.”

“Well,” Graham says with a smile, “you gave me free reign.” He looks around the kitchen and adds softly, “I did my best.”

Something about the tone of his voice makes Richard pause.

”Yes,” he says, a little uncertainly. “You did.”

Graham’s eyes meet his and Richard feels the atmosphere in the room start to change, sees something flicker in Graham’s calm blue eyes as his smile goes from sweet and happy to something a little more—sad, Richard realises. Graham looks sad.

“It’s okay, Richard,” Graham says, and his voice is so quiet, so gentle, that Richard finds himself unconsciously leaning closer. “I promise.”

“What is?”

Graham’s smile widens, but the look in his eyes doesn’t change.

“That sometimes, one’s best isn’t quite enough.”

“But it’s perfect,” Richard protests, frowning. “The house, the grounds—it’s all turned out exactly how I wanted it to.”

For a long, long moment, Graham just looks at him. The small, soft smile is still on his face but there’s something else in his eyes now, something that Graham has hidden away, locked up deep inside. Richard feels an odd pang of loss at the thought that he’ll never know what it is.

“I’m glad,” Graham says eventually, “that I could give you what you wanted.”

They talk a little more after that, over cups of coffee and a shared plate of biscuits. But there’s a certain tension in the air now that neither of them can deny, and it’s not long before Graham stands and starts getting ready to leave.  

Richard walks him to the front door.

“Thank you, again,” he says. “Really, I can’t thank you enough.”

Graham shakes his head. “I was happy to do it. The whole village is glad to see this old girl looking like new again,” he says, patting the door frame with fond look on his face. Then he goes still, suddenly, and glances over at Richard, who frowns at the abrupt change in his expression.

“Graham? Are you all right?”

That seems to pull Graham out of whatever thought he’d been lost in. He shakes his head a little.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “I just almost forgot.”

He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, fishing something out, before opening his hand and holding it out, palm up, for Richard to see.

It’s the spare key to the house.

“Guess I won’t be needing this now,” Graham says.

He’s smiling but the hidden look in his eyes is back and Richard finds it difficult to look away. He can hear a distant rumble of thunder outside and it seems oddly fitting that the weather should turn now, when Graham’s just about to say goodbye.

“You won’t have to put up with me showing up at all hours anymore,” Graham adds. Richard shakes his head.

“I never minded it,” he says, and means it. “You were always welcome.”

Graham’s smile widens. “I appreciate that.”

Richard carefully takes the key from Graham’s hand, fingers brushing over Graham’s palm as he does so.

“Enjoy the rest of the night, Richard,” Graham says, smile still in place, and only a little while later he’s gone, leaving Richard to stand by the door, alone, listening to the sound of his car driving off down the hill.

Richard isn’t sure how long he stands there, eyes fixed on the key in his hands. The house is silent and it’s strange to think that he’ll never hear Graham working outside again, never wander out of his office and be greeted by the sound of Graham’s footsteps or hammer or axe.

There’s another clap of thunder, closer this time, shaking Richard out of his thoughts. He slowly makes his way through the house, heading back to the kitchen, taking in all the countless changes that Graham had wrought: fresh paint on the walls, bunches of flowers in every room, custom-made cabinets and drawers. Paint that he’d helped Richard to choose, flowers that he’d grown himself, woodwork that he’d put together with his own hands.

Richard comes to the staircase and runs a hand over the main post. It’s his favourite part of the house now, the richly-coloured mahogany covered all over with dozens of decorative carvings—vines that twist up and down its entire length, twining around all sorts of small symbols related to Richard’s work. Crowns and flowers and birds, lions and fleur de lys. And at the very top of the post were the tudor roses that Graham had carved for him, not long after they’d first met. Richard traces the edges of the petals with his fingertips and feels something tighten a little in his chest. Even then, he thinks now, even then Graham already seemed to to appreciate the things that Richard was most passionate about. The things that Richard loved.

He’d made Richard a gift with his bare hands and asked for nothing in return.

Richard moves on to the kitchen, where he sinks into a chair by the table. Their dinner things are still out but Richard makes no move to clear them away. A table set for two, Richard thinks, as he listens to the rain starting to fall outside. His eyes land on the plate of biscuits they’d shared, mostly empty now save for a few broken pieces.

Richard’s never liked jaffa cakes but there’s still an unopened box in the pantry.

He looks around the room, the key still gripped tightly in his fist, and sees Graham everywhere: in the hand-carved lintel above the door, in the brand new shelves above the sink, in the purple mug Graham always chose for his tea. Graham is all over the house, all over the grounds, having turned a crumbling pile of stone and wood into a home again.

Just like he’d helped an isolated man find some joy in life again.

Richard opens his fist and stares at a key that he suddenly realises is no longer his.

He hears the rain start to fall in earnest, and realises something else, too.

He's barely thought of Alan in months, because something else has been on his mind instead.

Someone.

Richard closes his fingers around the key again and runs out of the house, chasing after the one person it really belongs to.

**

The rain has become a downpour now and Richard curses the mud slowing the car down as he races down the hill. It seems to take an interminably long time but eventually he can make out tail lights up ahead, bouncing around in the darkness as Graham drives away into the night.

Richard fumbles around the passenger seat for his phone and swears when he realises that he must have left it in the house.

It’s too dangerous to go any faster so Richard starts banging on the horn, long insistent beeps that he keeps up until he sees Graham’s brake lights flash and his van finally start to slow down. He pulls over to the side of the road and Richard follows suit, hastily throwing the car into park but not bothering to turn off the engine or kill the lights before he shoves the door open.

He gets out of the car but stumbles a little in his haste, and just when he thinks his face is about to meet the muddied road he’s suddenly encased in strong, warm arms and forcibly pulled upright again.

“Richard?” Graham asks incredulously, the rain already starting to soak through his shirt. “What the hell are you doing out here?” He runs his hands over Richard’s arms like he’s searching for injuries. “Are you all right?”

The familiar question makes Richard freeze. Something of what he’s thinking must be showing on his face because Graham suddenly lets go of him and takes an uncertain step back.

Richard steps forward, following him.

“This is yours,” he says without preamble, and pushes the key into Graham’s hand.

Graham looks down and stares at it. He stands very still, and Richard watches a series of emotions pass over his face, both of them heedless of the rain. Shock, confusion, wariness, disbelief. And then—then he swallows, and slowly, slowly lifts his head. Their eyes meet and even through the sheets of rain, Richard can recognise the look on his face.

Hope.

“Richard?” he asks, so quietly that Richard is only just able to hear him.

“It’s yours,” Richard repeats, heart hammering in his chest. The rain seems to match its rapid beat and he has to pause for a second, pushing a sodden lock of hair out his face. “It always has been. And—” he takes a cautious step forward, and when Graham doesn’t move away, he takes another and another.

“And?” Graham prompts. Richard is so close now that he feels the question against his own face, an exhalation of breath against his skin that makes him shiver despite the warmth of the rain.

“And it still is,” Richard says, forcing himself to look Graham in the eye. “If you still want to take it.”

In the harsh glare of the headlights, something seems to light up in the depths of Graham’s blue, blue eyes. He stares at Richard for a long time, the rain making his thin grey shirt stick to his skin, revealing the powerful, defined lines of muscle that Richard already knew were under there.  

Richard can’t help himself. He raises an unsteady hand and presses his palm against the centre of Graham’s chest. He can feel a heartbeat there, rapid and strong—too rapid, actually. Racing. He licks his lips and sees Graham track the movement of his tongue.

“Say something,” Richard whispers, knowing Graham won’t hear him over the rain. “Please.”

Graham takes his face in his hands and leans in. Richard’s eyes fall shut.

“Of course I still want it,” he hears Graham whisper. “Of course I still want _you_.”

And then Richard is being kissed breathless, one broad, calloused hand finding the hem of his sodden shirt and snaking up underneath it. Graham tastes like chocolate and coffee and warm, sweet rain and Richard moans into his mouth, pressing closer, needing more, when Graham’s other hand suddenly tightens in his hair, hard enough to hurt in the very best way.

“God,” he pants against Richard’s open mouth. “You’re—can I—I want—"

Graham’s normally so articulate that hearing him reduced to monosyllabic desperation makes a sudden spike of lust surge through Richard’s veins, knowing he's the one that caused it. He fists his hands in Graham’s soaked shirt and licks his lips again.

“Come back with me,” he says, still trying to catch his breath. “Come home.”

It’s dark and wet, the sky blanketed by cloud so thick the moon and stars might as well not exist, but the smile Graham gives him is just about the brightest thing Richard’s ever seen.

**

By the time they get back to the house the initial burst of adrenaline has mostly worn off and Richard hesitates when he closes the door behind them. He wants this, he’s wanted this for a while, but—

“Richard.”

He looks up and sees Graham watching him. There’s a small smile on his face and something like understanding in his eyes.

“There’s no need to rush into anything,” he adds. “We don’t have to—”

“Do you want to?” Richard interrupts.

Graham stares at him, a clear open hunger on his face, and Richard is suddenly very aware of how his own thin white shirt is still soaked through, clinging to his chest and semi-transparent with rain. 

“Oh, I want to,” Graham replies. There’s a roughness to his voice that makes Richard swallow, and the heat in Graham’s eyes suddenly gets more intense. “But I can wait.”

Richard steps closer, into Graham’s personal space.

“Why would you do that?”

Graham gaze flickers down to his mouth but otherwise he stays very still.

“I want—”

“Yes?”

Graham takes a breath.

“I want you to be sure of what you want.” He pauses. “Of _who_ you want.”

Richard thinks for a moment. He’s never been good at this, never. Give him half an hour and a piece of paper and a pen, and he could write something beautiful, compose the perfect paragraph that would convey exactly what he wanted to express. But try to string a sentence together and speak it out loud with a barely a minute to think it over and Richard always falters, always, words stumbling over his tongue in a way they never did when he wrote them down. 

“There—there are only two keys.” Richard pauses, hoping Graham will understand. “I… I never even considered giving the other one to anyone else.”

He looks up and is surprised to see that Graham is smiling.

“Well, then,” he says softly. “That’s good enough for me.”

And then they’re kissing again, soft, unhurried kisses that Richard is more than happy to continue for hours—until Graham’s mouth moves to his jaw and down over his neck, beard scraping over his throat. Richard can’t help it, he moans, obscenely loud, and the hand in his wet hair tightens suddenly before Graham lifts his head and whispers roughly into his ear.

“Bedroom. Please.”

Graham has him pinned as soon as they’re there, pressing Richard into the wall and kissing him hard. His thumbs stroke over Richard’s nipples and Richard moans again, into Graham’s mouth, pushing up into his touch, into the weight of Graham holding him down.

“Jesus, Richard,” Graham gasps when he pulls away. “You’re so—”

He shakes head, seemingly at a loss for words.

Richard's no better. “Your shirt,” he says distractedly. “Can I—”

Graham takes a step back and slowly peels off his sodden t-shirt. For a second, all Richard can do is stare. Unconsciously, he licks his lips.

“You look even better than I remember,” he whispers. Graham suddenly ducks his head, trying to bite back a laugh.

“You noticed, then?” he asks, looking up through his lashes. “In the garden that day?”

Richard frowns.

“Wait,” he says. “Did you—Are you saying you did that on purpose?”

Graham smiles innocently.

“Did what on purpose?”

“Behave like you were in the opening scene of some gay porno set in my back garden.”

Graham’s smile widens. He shrugs.

“How else was I supposed to get your attention?”

Richard huffs a small, surprised laugh. He shakes his head.

“You had my attention when you ran in front of my car to save a baby deer.” Richard’s eyes roam over Graham’s bare torso, over the solid warm muscle that, he realises now, he's wanted to touch for months. “But I can’t deny that your little show did help to… solidify, a few things.”

Graham raises an amused eyebrow.

“And is the same sight _solidifying_ anything else, right now?”

Richard doesn’t answer. Instead he steps closer and reaches out, fingertips sweeping feather-light over Graham’s shoulders, chest, arms. He slowly trails a hand down Graham’s abdomen, following the line of hair there. Graham inhales sharply but stays still when Richard pauses above the waistband of his jeans.

Richard looks up and has to take a breath himself when he sees how dark Graham’s eyes have become, how intense the look in them in is. He licks his lips again and the heat in Graham’s eyes suddenly sharpens.

“I want to touch you,” Graham says. His voice is quiet, rough in a way that makes Richard’s cock twitch. He looks Richard dead in the eye. “I’ve wanted to touch you for months.”

Richard swallows.

“Have you waited long enough?”

Graham responds by carefully pushing him onto the bed. Richard is only too happy to oblige, watching in silence as Graham gets them both all the way undressed. He looks as strong and powerful and in control as he had in the garden that day, the first time Richard had gotten a glimpse of what was under all those woollen jumpers and hooded macs, and the thought of all that strength and power being directed at him makes Richard’s throat go dry. 

Graham is already hard. They both are. 

Richard gets the sense that Graham tries to go slowly when they kiss again, lips brushing lightly over Richard’s mouth before his tongue sweeps in, but the first intimate touch of all that skin on bare, warm skin—the long smooth stretch of Graham’s thigh between his legs, the broad expanse of Graham’s back beneath his palms, the firm press of Graham’s chest against his—and Richard’s tugging him closer, moaning into his mouth, suddenly and fiercely desperate to get as much contact as he possibly can. And Graham’s no different, hands fisting in Richard’s hair while they rub against each other like teenagers, panting as he licks over Richard’s rain-damp throat.

“God, you feel good,” Graham whispers, before he suddenly rolls them both over. Richard ends up on his back, arms wrapped loosely around Graham’s waist. “But you asked me touch you,” he adds, “and I can do better than this.”

“What do you—” Richard starts, but it dissolves into another wordless moan when Graham bends his head and starts licking at his nipples. Graham doesn’t stop there, licking and sucking and biting, mouth moving all over Richard’s chest and down over his stomach. He kisses along the inside of Richard’s thighs, beard teasing the soft skin there, and Richard doesn’t even notice his legs spreading wider, inviting, hands gripping the headboard as Graham’s hot mouth gets closer and closer to his aching cock.

“God,” he whispers shakily. “Graham, _please_ —" 

“What?” Graham asks. His voice is so deep now, a low rough growl, and it makes Richard's cock jump again. “What do you want?”

Richard swallows. 

“You,” he is all he can say, and Graham’s sudden smile is so bright, so warm, that Richard finds himself helplessly smiling back, laughing a little in embarrassment at how giddy he feels. It’s not what he expected, the laughter and the sweetness and the simple sense of having fun, but then, Graham’s never been anything Richard expected. Never.

“Just me?” Graham asks, raising an eyebrow. “Not, say, this?” 

He wraps his fingers around Richard’s cock and gives it a long, slow stroke.

“ _God_ ,” Richard moans out, back arching a little off the bed. Graham’s calloused hands just add to the maddening friction and when he tightens his grip Richard eyes clamp shut, desperately trying to hold onto some semblance of control.

He hears Graham chuckle and then something else is touching him, something soft and warm and wet, and Richard’s eyes fly open in surprise. 

Graham sucks lightly at the head of his cock before he starts licking up and down the length of it, watching Richard the entire time. Richard can’t look away from him, from the hunger and the heat in his eyes, and when he finds a spot that makes Richard shudder he smiles suddenly, the look in his eyes going almost wicked. 

Graham lifts his head and starts rubbing a calloused thumb over that same spot, over and over and over, and Richard has to shut his eyes again, mouth dropping open on a moan and unable to stop his hips from bucking up, hard. And then he feels Graham tonguing the head of his cock again and Richard cries out, hands fisting the sheets, cock twitching when Graham suddenly shoves his hips against the mattress to stop him from moving.   

Without warning he’s enveloped in soft wet heat and Richard whimpers, straining against Graham’s impossibly strong hands. He doesn’t want to come this fast, wants to draw it out and make it good for Graham, wants to show him how much he—

Graham starts to suck and Richard promptly loses his mind.

“Jesus  _god_ ,” he bursts out, back arching again. “Gra—Graham, _fuck_.”

Graham just sucks even harder, head bobbing as his mouth moves up and down the length of him, and Richard moans again, desperately close already, heart thudding in his chest. He forces his eyes open and sees that Graham is still watching him, a kind of hot greed in his blue eyes that somehow makes Richard even harder. Richard licks his lips and Graham groans at the sight, mouth still around Richard’s cock, and all at once it becomes too much—the wet heat and soft tongue, the hard suction and the calloused hands, the intense look in Graham's blue, blue eyes.

“ _God_ ,” Richard cries out, eyes screwing shut. “I can’t—fuck, _Graham—_ I’m—”

He comes hard without warning, and comes all the harder when he realises that Graham hasn’t moved away, that his mouth is still on his cock and that he’s swallowing every single drop of him.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Richard gasps, shuddering.

Graham gives him one last lick when Richard’s finally spent.

“Not quite yet,” he says, straightening up and flashing a wolfish grin. His voice is hoarse and his lips are red and somehow, Richard’s cock twitches again.

“Jesus,” Richard pants, still trying to catch his breath. “You’re going to kill me.”

Graham just chuckles before crawling up the bed. He hovers over Richard for a moment, staring down at his flushed face and brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead. There’s a soft smile on his face and something equally soft in his eyes and Richard feels his chest tighten when he realises that the hidden look from before is gone, replaced with something simple and open and clear. 

“Kiss me,” Richard whispers.

Graham’s smile widens.

“Sure you don’t need a break?” he asks with mock seriousness. “You think you can take it?” 

Richard reaches up, fingers trailing over the shell of Graham’s ear, the line of his beard, the curve of his smiling mouth.

“If you’ll give it,” he replies softly. Something bright flashes in Graham’s eyes.

“Gladly,” he answers, and does just that.

Richard moans as Graham’s body settles over his, hands roaming all over Graham’s strong shoulders and muscled back, coming to rest on the smooth curve of his perfect arse. Richard pulls him closer and Graham groans, rubbing himself against Richard’s hipbone.

“God,” Richard gasps, when he feels how hot and hard Graham still is. He can’t help thinking about what it would feel like inside him and he pulls Graham even closer, encouraging Graham to keep moving against him.

Graham’s grip his hair abruptly tightens, moaning into Richard's ear when Richard spreads his legs.

“Can I—?” Graham pants. 

“God, yes,” Richard whispers. 

Graham lifts his head and kisses him again, hard and rough and desperate. 

“Do you have con—?” he starts, just as Richard says, “I don’t have anything to—” 

They both stop and stare at each other.

It’s Richard who starts first, a short, disbelieving chuckle, but soon they’re both laughing, Graham’s face pressed into Richard’s neck.

“You didn’t bring anything?” Richard asks.

“I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

“Well,” Richard says after a pause, “I guess we’ll have to save it for later.”

He smiles when he feels Graham go still above him, hearing the the unspoken promise in his words.

Richard thinks for a moment. Then he suddenly rolls them both over, until Graham is the one on his back.

“Richard?” Graham asks, looking up at him.

Richard doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans down and does what he’s wanted to do for months.

He touches Graham everywhere, with mouth and fingers, and hands and tongue, cataloguing every inch of the perfect, powerful body that he now knows was on offer from almost the moment they’d met. The sculpted chest, the defined abs, the strong arms and talented fingers. Those long, muscled thighs; that firm arse; the broad, sun-kissed back. How could he have wasted so much time, Richard wonders now, as he soaks up Graham’s moans and gasps and breathless curses, as he hungrily tastes Graham’s salty-sweet skin. How could he have spent so much time wallowing in the past, when all this was right in front of him? 

“Oh, fuck, Richard,” Graham whispers shakily, as Richard starts pumping his cock with one hand. He reaches out, panting, fingers carding through Richard’s hair. His hand trails down until it cups Richard’s jaw. “You’re so—” 

He doesn’t finish, whatever he was going to say lost to another low moan when Richard thumbs over the head of his cock. Richard still understands, though.

“So are you,” he whispers, before he starts kissing up Graham’s torso again, hand still moving steadily. Richard licks along the trail of hair on his stomach and spends long, languid moments mouthing over Graham’s perfect chest, teeth lightly teasing his nipples. Graham shudders under his mouth and Richard can feel his heartbeat against his tongue, against his lips, a rapid pounding beat that gets even faster when Richard suddenly tightens his grip.

“Richard,” Graham gasps, hips bucking up hard. 

Richard settles himself over Graham’s body and Graham immediately pulls him down for a deep, hungry kiss. Graham’s tongue fucks into his mouth like another promise for later and Richard starts stroking him in earnest, all teasing over, suddenly overcome with the need to see Graham come apart in his hands. 

Graham breaks the kiss with a surprised gasp, eyes screwing shut. His hips move more and more urgently as Richard pumps him even harder.

“Oh _fuck_ , Richard, _god_ ,” he moans, fingers digging into Richard’s back.

“I’ve got you,” Richard whispers back, staring rapt as Graham gets closer and closer to the edge. “I’m right here.”

Graham’s eyes suddenly open, looking right at him, and when Richard licks his lips that’s it—Graham shudders hard and comes, gasping as he spills out over Richard’s hand. 

He pulls Richard down for another hard kiss, cock still pulsing against Richard’s palm, and Richard doesn’t even care about the mess, doesn’t care about anything other than the sweet warm mouth on his, the sweat-slick skin pressing against him.

There’s another clap of thunder outside, another flash of lightning. In the brief flare of light Richard sees Graham smiling at him, ever-patient blue eyes lit with a kind of quiet, simple contentment. Darkness envelopes them again in less than a second but Richard can’t stop himself from laughing a little, an unexpected burst of happiness bubbling up in his chest. Because despite the darkness, despite the clouds and the rain, he knows that smile is still there, and is still directed at him.

**

Richard watches Graham from inside the car, chatting amiably to the owner of the B&B that they’d just spent the weekend in. Graham had insisted on showing Richard more of the Cumbrian countryside and it had been a wonderful weekend—beautiful scenery, great food, uncharacteristically good weather… not to mention some long, _long_ hours getting acquainted with their very comfortable four poster bed. Still, Richard is anxious to get back, missing his own kitchen and bedroom and sofa more than he’d really expected to.

“All ready to go?” Graham asks a little while later, as he climbs into the car.

“More than ready,” Richard replies. Graham raises an eyebrow.

“I thought you had a good time here,” he says. He smirks a little as he gets his seatbelt on. “Especially last night.”

Richard chuckles but flushes a little when he starts the car up and sees that the marks on his wrists are still visible.

“I did have fun,” he acknowledges. “But that’s more because of you, not where we are.”

He’s surprised when Graham suddenly pulls one of his hands off the steering wheel. He carefully runs his fingers over Richard’s wrist before bending his head to press a gentle kiss against the marks there.

“Likewise,” he says, voice soft, looking up and meeting Richard’s eyes.

Richard has to take a breath, looking away when his stomach does a stupid little flip. But he hears Graham chuckle and smiles to himself, knowing the feeling is mutual.

“You know the way back?” Graham asks.

“I think so, but might as well be sure.” Richard activates the GPS on his phone. “Hey Siri,” he starts. “Highfie—”

He stops and glances over. Graham is watching him from the passenger seat, a small, familiar smile on his face and something bright and sweet in his eyes. 

Richard clears his throat.

“Home,” he says instead, and Siri brings up the map instantly.

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone still on this ship: this is for you.


End file.
